Old houses often have ghosts. But one should be especially careful when those ghosts are relatives, as Elissa Cullman discovered when she and her husband first moved into their summer and weekend retreat in southern Connecticut three decades ago. “We were young and recently married, and my in-laws couldn’t understand why we’d want to renovate the family’s ancestral home, because it was so perfect,” recalls Elissa Cullman, owner of Cullman & Kravis, the New York interior design firm.

Her husband, Edgar Cullman, Jr., retrieves the hallowed album with black-and-white photos showing a spartan, overgrown cabin that looks like a wilderness shelter. “It didn’t have great aesthetic value,” he concedes; nonetheless, he, like his parents and grandparents, spent many happy days at the rambling house, set on a large expanse of woods and meadows. “But there was an emotional attachment—I mean, even we had second thoughts about changing the place,” he continues, glancing hopefully at his wife for confirmation. “I didn’t have second thoughts,” says Elissa Cullman, gently but firmly.

It has taken three makeovers for the designer to convince the Cullman family that the house has in fact been turned into a beautiful, livable place.

It has taken three major makeovers by renowned architects over more than a generation for the designer to fully convince the Cullman family that the house has in fact been turned into a beautiful, livable place. “By the time we did the third renovation a couple of years ago,” she says, “I was established in my career, and the family’s reaction was curiosity, like: ‘What’s she going to do to the house this time?’”

Most of the answer lies in the enclosed sunroom, designed by architect John B. Murray. Formerly a curving screen porch, the room was converted for year-round use. “It has become the most important element of the house because it’s where the owners spend the majority of their time,” notes Murray. The room’s key architectural features—inspired by a notion that Thomas Jefferson incorporated into Monticello—are triple-hung windows that are counterweighted and recede upward into a parapet on the roof. “It’s kind of like the old Castro convertible sofa that you open with a touch of the hand,” says Elissa Cullman, while her husband provides a demonstration. Using a wooden stave with a brass hook at one end, he tugs at a set of pulleys that sends layers of windows hurtling upward and leaves the summer screens in place. Radiant floor heating and central air-conditioning take care of the rest of the climate control.

The views from the sunroom are expansive: To the right are dense woods with enough tree varieties to qualify as an arboretum; to the left lie fields where most of the estate’s vegetables are harvested; and in between, in a clearing recently remodeled by British garden designer Simon Johnson, is a pondlike pool framed by a folly and a bathhouse.

The sunroom is decorated with the Americana that is a hallmark of Elissa Cullman’s work in her clients’ country houses. Three wooden cigar store Indian figures—in deference to her husband’s cigar company—are dramatically silhouetted against the 10-foot-high windows. Nineteenth-century game boards and carnival signs grace the walls. Large metal angel, eagle and horse weathervanes stand amid a camphorwood trunk, an assortment of faux-bamboo maple furniture, and mahogany side chairs fashioned for the American centennial. “My interest in Americana started with Edgar’s mother, who is a devoted collector of American antiques,” she says.

“My interest in Americana started with Edgar’s mother, who is a devoted collector of American antiques,” Elissa Cullman says.

More of the owners’ remarkable collection is on display in the living room and dining room, both designed by Robert A. M. Stern in 1974. “This was such a dark and dank place before Bob Stern let light in,” says Elissa Cullman. At one end of the dining room he shoehorned a corridor with a skylight, brightening up the gloomiest part of the house. Renovating the dining area was particularly sensitive because Edgar Cullman’s paternal grandmother spent much of her time late in life in a screen porch at the end of the room.

In homage to Grandmother Cullman, her 15-foot table remains the centerpiece of the dining area. Another outstanding object in the room is a Napoleon III sideboard, boldly carved and brightly colored. “I chose it because of its sympathy with American folk art aesthetic,” says Elissa Cullman. “Besides, it’s too boring and restrictive to have everything in one style. You’d end up with a museum room.”

In the living room, the Stern renovation drew in natural light by placing French doors on either side of the stone fireplace and adding a high oval window that also raises the perception of the ceiling’s height. Above the mantel is arguably the most significant painting in the house—an early-19th-century portrait of a gentleman by Ammi Phillips. The room has a medley of fabrics—linen damask, silk, suede—in a multitude of patterns and colors. Yet the effect isn’t visually overwhelming because the size and spacing of the furniture is so carefully chosen. “You learn by experience how much is enough,” says Elissa Cullman. “It’s more difficult to get it right in a room like this one that’s filled with ‘information’ than, say, in the classic, modern beige space with a few throw pillows and strong pictures. But that’s why people need decorators, thank goodness.”

“You learn how much is enough. It’s more difficult to get it right in a room filled with ‘information.’”

Upstairs, the master bedroom, put together from two guest rooms, is the most important part of the renovation undertaken by architect Rink Dupont in 1989. The bed is slightly recessed into the wall. The flower-and-leaf pattern on the wall is the same used for the duvet and bed skirt. The fireplace was the suggestion of Elissa Cullman’s late partner, Hedi Kravis. “We had to remove the exterior stones and extend the flue up to the second floor,” she says. “It was kind of a big deal, but worth it.”

At the far end of the room, three steps up, is an alcove, created during the Murray renovation, where Elissa Cullman reads, writes or just contemplates the woods and pool. Grandmother Cullman should have had it so good.